


The Quiet Countess

by Temaris



Category: HEYER Georgette - Works, The Quiet Gentleman - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Childbirth, F/M, Gen, Gift Fic, Implied childbirth, Yuletide, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drusilla Frant, nee Morville, is not having the best of days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet Countess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redsnake05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/gifts).



> This did not go where I expected it to, and if you have concerns, please check the end notes.

Drusilla, Countess St Erth, found herself possessed of an abrupt and entirely unaccustomed urge to fly into a rage of some sort. She was not, it had to be conceded, at her best, and she thought rather wistfully of the pleasant life that had been her lot until a mere few days before, and how very much she missed it. She took instead a deep breath, and tried to regain her usual equanimity: even in the most trying of circumstances there was no need to behave like a child. 

And these were trying times indeed. 

She did not wish to seem ungrateful for the affection in which she was held, manifesting itself in overly solicitous friends and family providing help of the most practical and yet somehow least helpful sort. And yet, the temptation to clear the room of every last one of the prating idiots was so very strong. Just a little peace and quiet before she put her back into it. Their solicitude had made the room crowded and over-heated (a good half of those present had advocated drawing all the curtains and stoking the fire in the heat of July and her protests had been overruled). Moreover, she was, and this was the crux of the entire wretched business, in some considerable discomfort for which no one had a single worthwhile piece of help.

She had instead been plied with noxious draughts, elixirs and powders, none of which had the least efficacy it seemed. A little laudanum had been a great relief to her earlier, but she preferred to use it sparingly than give everyone else free rein. Also, it had brought matters to a complete halt, and Drusilla was of the opinion that allowing the whole business to drag on unnecessarily could only be a mistake.

A block of ice sat in a corner of the room, straw dripping from its rapidly deliquescing sides. She sympathised, but wished that someone would make use of it to cool the room or herself. It had been hastily brought up from the cellar on the orders of yet another soi-disant expert, and presented by an imperturbable Abney, who had glanced at the over-filled room, with its array of doctors, midwives, and almost every female relation that Drusilla possessed, and blandly suggested that Luncheon was served, and if my lady would care to partake of a small tray that he had taken the liberty of bringing up, her guests could retire to the Blue Dining room for a restorative repast.

All had insisted that they must stay in Drusilla’s hour of need. 

Drusilla was growing rapidly in sympathy for her mother-in-law’s iron determination that her every whim be attended to, her every mood catered and cosseted.

Abney’s eyes met the Countess’s and both despaired. The tray, once produced, almost made it to Drusilla’s bedside, but two of the doctors whipped away the posset – Not eggs! one cried; Not nutmeg! insisted the other, and ate it between them. The bread and cheese disappeared to parts unknown but doubtless appreciative, presumably lest either also contain eggs, and the tisane that Drusilla had requested vanished, one of the midwives sipping it cautiously with a faintly disappointed air. Drusilla strongly suspected that the woman had hoped it contained Madeira or something stronger. Her private light lunch was thus distributed into the general pool, all seemingly agreed on the fact that the last thing she should do at this delicate stage of the proceedings, was to eat.

“Mama, you should go and eat, I will be very well here, and I believe I could sleep a little if it were quiet,” she said hopefully. Her broad hint was lost on Mrs Morville, who, normally as pragmatic as Drusilla herself, had lost the battle with her nerves over her only daughter’s impending interesting event.

"Dear Drusilla," Mrs Morville said, wringing her hands, "always so thoughtful. No, I cannot leave -- perhaps the doctor--"

Indeed the doctor had things to say -- all of the doctors and assorted specialists had many things to say, most of which sounded like arrant nonsense. But which to choose? Lady Grampound had generously come by to 'see Gervase's brat whelped', and brought in train her own accoucheur, a man whose diligence was only outweighed by his swift hand as he removed the last of the cold cuts from my lady’s plate. By way of contrast, a more slothful doctor, the Dowager’s contribution to proceedings, had missed his chance entirely, and was regarding the empty tray mournfully, while making no effort to leave for the dining room. He had the air of a man who feared the Dowager Countess’s wrath more than he desired to eat, although the balance might yet change, he was still standing stalwart for now in the hope that he might be raised in the Dowager’s estimation from a mere second fiddle to first violin -- the Dowager Lady St Erth had been most frank regarding the talent that she had graciously selected to attend on her daughter-in-law's confinement.

> "...I do not hesitate to send you the second best man in the county, for you have always been of a hearty constitution, even if Gervase’s sickliness is a concern, his mother’s influence is now at a generation removed, and so I am persuaded, shall reduce its iniquitous grasp on the health of the House. I know you will prefer me to keep the best close at hand; my health has not been at its best since I was forced from my beloved Stanyon. Poor dear Martin puts a brave face on it, but he can hardly bear to enter Evesleigh, much less call it home. We do the best with what we have, and I at least, am grateful that I shall not long be for this world, and can happily pass my small part on to those who will endeavour to fulfil the shoes that I have left, no matter how impossible a task that may seem."

The letter continued in the general vein, as ever, that St Erth was an unnatural creature who had no thought for his poor mother in law and brother. Drusilla was of the opinion that the Dowager felt her strategy subtle and her tactics flawless in her campaign to return to the bosom of the Stanyon household where she could continue much as she ever had, bullying both step-son and step-son’s wife, ruling the roost, and enjoying the privileges in which she had only four short years previously been so comfortably ensconced.

In this campaign, Stanyon loomed large in the Dowager’s wistful and widely shared daydreams. The agèd widow merely wished, she assured those who called on her, to rest her withered limbs and weary head, breathing her last in Stanyon’s healthful airs, bending her grieving heart and o’er strained sinews once more to that noble home that in distant halcyon days, before her step-son had restored himself to the dignities which the law prescribed, the Law having no regard for a mother’s tender feelings or a family’s best interests, she had called her own.

Fortunately, the Dowager's complete lack of any sort of interest in anyone other than herself (and occasionally those she conceived of as extensions of herself), and concomitant lack of any sense of irony rendered her habitually obnoxious letters less a trial of familial sentiment and feeling, and more an occasion for amusement, and in the event of particularly choice insult and self-interest, dramatic readings by the Dowager's unfilial son and step-son – Martin had found Evesleigh much less congenial when occupied by his Mama.

Given Gervase had suggested that over his dead body would Lady St Erth be permitted to return, her return would be undoubtedly accompanied by an excess of the dead and dying. It seemed much tidier to keep her away.

There was a deep irony in the fact that Theo, far away in his Jamaican exile, had written knowledgeably to Drusilla of the best local midwives. Of all her well meaning advisors his were the only suggestions that she had regarded with any sort of approbation. True, she was better versed than he in the best -- and worst --that there was to offer in the locale after his five years in exile. His letters too conveyed his own sense of rueful irony, and were surprisingly a source of comfort and entertainment, so long as one could overlook the murder attempts, now five years past and still figuring largely in local gossip.

Also, taking his advice had the beneficial side effect of silencing absolutely everyone she told.

Her Aunt, Lady Morville, had brought her favourite doctor from London when she arrived for a short visit some five weeks previous. Dearly as Drusilla appreciated her Aunt's well meant gesture of familial solidarity it had not really helped. And finally, a local midwife waited by the fire, patiently.

Doctor Malpas had sent word to alert him if he was required. He would, he assured the St Erths, hold himself available in so far was possible in a busy local practice. His absence was the one genuine regret Drusilla had: she felt strongly that he might do much to clear the room when her own firm requests were treated as the nonsensical whims of a child.

She tugged another pillow behind her shoulders, and sighed. It really was quite annoying. The curtain nearest the bed rippled and then stilled. Drusilla pursed her lips. Very well.

“Abney, another tray please, and remove the ice. And if we could clear the room a trifle?”

“Of course, my lady.” Abney produced two stalwart young men and the ice disappeared. He also somehow ushered the three doctors to the bedroom door, his firm manner proof against their insistence that professional etiquette demanded their presence. Drusilla breathed a sigh of relief. Now, for the family.

"Mama, dear Aunt Morville, I think I would like to sleep now," Drusilla repeated, a tad more firmly. "I find I grow most tired, and I know neither of you has eaten this morning."

A hubbub arose, quelled only by the auspices of Mrs Morville. Hushing each other as they chivvied everyone out the two formidable ladies paused at the door. Drusilla placed a hand over her mouth to cover up a yawn that fooled no one.

"You're sure you don't--"

"I’m quite sure." She smiled sweetly, and closed her eyes, waiting for everyone to depart.

“Your lunch, my lady,” Abney murmured, and Drusilla breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Do keep them occupied as long as you can, Abney,” Gervase said cheerfully. “And bring up some cake. I feel today demands cake.”

“Mrs Marple is baking fit for a king, my lord.” Abney permitted himself a small smile, unusual circumstances demanded unusual indulgence, clearly. “I shall bring some up as soon as it is available.”

"You are a bad person, my lord," she observed, seemingly untroubled by my lord's villainy.

Gervase Frant, seventh earl of St Erth, and for the moment, Viscount Desborough, grinned at her as he tugged back the curtains. "It is true, my absurd darling." He arranged a chair next to his wife's bed, settled himself in and took her hand. "Do they plague you very badly?"

"I find myself in great sympathy with your Mama-in-law, which is a thing I never imagined could be possible."

Gervase raised an eyebrow, "It does seem quite unlikely."

"I know! And so I will not do it, however tempting it is to tell them all to go hang themselves--"

"Fighting talk!" he said approvingly. "Can I tempt you to a little posset?" He held up the glass, filled with the sweet smell of lemon and cream and spices.

Drusilla took a sip, and pulled a face. "Your infant does not care for this any more than I do, my lord. Time enough for nursery food."

He took back the glass. "Some food? Another pillow?"

"I believe --" she stopped and stared fixedly at the wall for a long moment, then gasped for air. "I think _perhaps_ you might send for Doctor Malpas. Discreetly. I hope that the rest of the horde will be too busy filling their bellies to think to come upstairs, although if you see Mrs Wooles, tell her that I think she too might excuse herself and return to us here. The four of us will do quite well, I believe, it's not as though I'm expecting an heir to the throne!"

Gervase pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, then another to her lips. "Immediately, if not sooner, my dove."

"You will probably want to let my hand go," she pointed out. "So you can leave."

"Mrs Marple will take care of it." He brushed her hair back from her sweating face. "I believe I shall remain here."

Shocked out of her own preoccupations Drusilla jerked her head up to stare at him, very nearly clipping his jaw with her forehead. "I do not believe there is much time left."

"Chard can help, at a pinch," her husband said blithely. "He's delivered enough foals, and a couple of camp brats too, though he swore blind they weren't his."

"Chard --" Drusilla was entirely diverted by the image of the sturdy, no-nonsense Yorkshireman handling a tiny baby. Her attention was wrenched back again before she could say more than his name, her hand tightening on her husband's. She waited for her breathing to steady once more, and made a shaky attempt at a smile. "I shall bear it in mind -- oh dear."

Mrs Marple hurried in, followed by the midwife. "Mr Martin has gone for the doctor, and the rest of them are elbows deep in my best ham."

"Good. Keep 'em that way if you can," Gervase said, his eyes entirely on his wife.

"Of course, sir," Mrs Marple said briskly. "There's water boiling, and plenty of clean linens," she went on to the midwife, "send if you need anything."

"You misunderstand me, sir," Drusilla said, gripping his hand tighter than ever. She paused, her face paling. "On second thoughts you can stay."

\------------------------

"Emma, I think," Gervase said thoughtfully. "It comes from a novel, harks back to a Norman ancestor of the Morvilles, and will do nicely."

"If you wish to upset your Mama-in-law enough to ensure she never speaks to us again certainly it will do very nicely," Drusilla said cheerfully, her gaze entirely absorbed with the small swaddled bundle in her husband's arms. "Of course, we will have raised her hopes. Even now I expect she is writing us a letter about how a family of nothing but girls would be a blessing for all."

"Am I to be Mr. Bennett in this fantasy?" Gervase inquired, only mildly curious since his daughter was sucking contentedly on one of his knuckles. "Perhaps one of Martin's friends could be persuaded to stand as Wickham?"

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh already has her counterpart, of course." Their eyes met, Gervase's dancing with mischief, and Drusilla's rueful but smiling. "Very well. Emma Mary Frant."

"Lady Emma." He smiled. "May she be as absurd and as practical as her dear Mama."

Drusilla chuckled, "Let's just hope she has fewer adventures than either of us."

Gervase shook his head. and took a couple of quick steps about the room, gently turning with his daughter in time to unheard music. "On the contrary, she should have all the adventures her heart desires, and be home in time for tea."

"Well, in that case, let's just hope she's inherited your luck." Drusilla paused. "She's going to be sick if you--" She winced. Gervase dropped into a chair heedless of the mess, and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Non-explicit childbirth, managed expertly by the ever resourceful Lady St Erth, nee Morville.


End file.
